


The Self I Am

by dustbottle



Series: Andreil: Into The Future [4]
Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Future Fic, Light Angst, M/M, Minyard-Josten Rivalry, POV Neil Josten, Post-Canon, Soft Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2017-08-22
Packaged: 2018-12-18 15:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11877519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbottle/pseuds/dustbottle
Summary: Though Neil and Andrew have been on the same professional team for years, the Minyard-Josten rivalry is still going strong. No one has caught wind of the truth of their relationship – but maybe it’s time for that to change.(Or: Neil and Andrew decide to come out. This is how it happens.)





	The Self I Am

**Author's Note:**

> Title is based on the last part of the beautiful poem “Otis” by Louise Glück:  
>  _“This is the end, isn’t it?_  
>  _And you are here with me again, listening with me: the sea_  
>  _no longer torments me; the self_  
>  _I wished to be is the self I am.”_
> 
> This is a sequel to [missing you (is all i am)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12742830), [Minyard-Josten: A Rivalry For The Ages](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11214843) and [Blossom Under Kindness](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11438940). It can be read separately, but I would recommend reading the other parts first. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: non-explicit references to scars and past injuries, non-explicit scar worship

They’re driving south on the I-95 when Neil first brings it up. It’s well after midnight, and they’ve been driving for hours already, the interstate stretching our dark and empty in front of them. They’re on their way down to Columbia from Richmond, Virginia, where their team played Matt’s Bears earlier that night. Next week is a rest week, and Andrew and Neil will be spending a couple of days together at the house in Columbia before flying back up to Boston to re-join their team. Luckily, their coach agreed to the arrangement with minimal fuss.

The Boston Rebels had won the game, Neil himself scoring four times before being subbed off, but it had been uncomfortably close. Matt had guarded Neil relentlessly, blocking him at every turn and checking him whenever he managed to break free; he was back to his usual exuberant self as soon as the buzzer sounded to signal the end of the game, lifting Neil clean off his feet with the force of his hug and looking vaguely bowled over when Andrew accepted his congratulatory handshake. Dan had driven up from her coaching job at Duke University to support her husband, their one-year-old daughter Daisy hanging off her arms, chubby and happy and already growing like a weed.

It had been good to see them all again; though Neil talks to Matt and Dan regularly, he misses them when he goes too long without actually seeing them, an experience that is still novel and somewhat bewildering even after all these years of having a family.

“Do you ever think about telling people?” Neil asks as he switches lanes, watching their car eat away at the endless stretch of black asphalt ahead. Andrew is smoking silently out of the open window; he normally smokes directly after a game, but he hadn’t even reached for a cigarette around the kid. Neil had noticed but decided not to mention it, and unsurprisingly Andrew hadn’t offered an explanation.

“About what?” Andrew asks without looking at him, extinguishing his cigarette and tapping out a rapid rhythm against the dashboard. The quiet hum filling the interior of their rental car is very different from the familiar low growl of the Maserati, and it’s setting Andrew slightly on edge.

“About us.”

Andrew huffs, but doesn’t say _there is no us_ like he would have before. Progress is slow and not always linear but it is there; small victories are victories, still.

“What brought this on?” He sounds indifferent, but the fact that he raised the question at all gives him away. Andrew doesn’t ask questions he doesn’t want answered.

“I don’t know,” Neil says, and it’s mostly true. He’s never thought about wanting to come out before, has never seen any need for it. It doesn’t matter to him what other people think, and his relationship with Andrew doesn’t concern anyone except the two of them. But he can still see the unselfconscious way Dan embraced Matt after the game, in full view of the cameras, and for some reason the picture has stuck with him.

It’s not like he wants that, not exactly; that’s not how they are or ever will be. It’s just… maybe coming out isn’t about other people at all; maybe it’s about _them_. Neil has fought and bled for the life he has now, and he wants to feel like he belongs in it, fully and wholeheartedly. He falls silent and watches the dark road as he tries to find a way to explain.

“I guess I don’t want to hide anymore,” he finally says.

Andrew doesn’t reply for so long Neil thinks he isn’t going to. When he glances over to check, Andrew is looking at him intently, trying to parse his meaning, his expression inscrutable.

“We’re not hiding,” Andrew finally says, and it’s not defensive or argumentative, just a simple statement of fact.

He’s right, of course. Everyone on their team knows, as does management, and they’ve never made any particular effort to hide their relationship; Neil vividly remembers getting into a rather public shouting match with their coach over the decision to play Andrew while he was only semi-recovered from an injury, not to mention every time a carefully blank-faced Andrew viciously targeted an opposing player just for fouling Neil. At this point, Neil is honestly surprised that the public hasn’t figured it out, and that it doesn’t seem likely to happen anytime soon, either.

Quite the opposite, in fact. Though they’ve been playing together for years, both with the Rebels and with the national team, people are still utterly convinced that they hate each other. The Minyard-Josten rivalry is well on its way to becoming legendary, helped along by the fact that neither of them do anything to discourage the rumours or curb the feverish speculation. Every time they talk on-court, Andrew’s gloved hand tangling in the front of his helmet or grabbing a handful of his jersey as he passes by the goal, Neil can feel the intense scrutiny of the crowd like a physical presence. If it were anyone else Neil would suspect them of playing it up intentionally, but since this is Andrew, he isn’t so sure.

Andrew is still watching him, one eyebrow raised as he waits patiently for Neil to formulate a response. He looks calm, composed but not uninterested, and Neil swallows down an unexpected thrill of nerves. Meeting Andrew’s watchful gaze, he finally puts all his cards on the table. “I want to come out. Yes or no?”

Andrew stays silent for a little while longer, mulling it over; when he speaks, his voice is low and quiet in the cool darkness of the car. “I’ll think about it,” he says, and it would have been a dismissal from anyone else, but from Andrew it’s a promise.

In lieu of a verbal reply, Neil takes one hand away from the steering wheel and leaves it palm up on the console in invitation. Andrew doesn’t hesitate before accepting, reaching out and entwining their fingers with quiet familiarity, and Neil will never stop marvelling at how much easier this has become over time. He squeezes Andrew’s hand, smiling to himself when Andrew squeezes back, and lets the rightness of it sink into his bones. He feels Andrew’s steady gaze on the side of his face as he drives into the night.

*

They don’t talk about it for weeks after that first time, both of them taking some time to think it over. Neil notices Andrew retreating to their study to talk to Bee more frequently than usual; he doesn’t ask about their conversations, trusting that Andrew will tell him about them if he wants to, but is reassured to see that Andrew looks more settled after each call than he did going in. Though Neil will never quite understand the relationship between Andrew and his college therapist, seeing its positive effects is enough for him.

Neil briefly considers talking to Matt or Allison or even Kevin, but in the end he decides against it; mostly because he already knows what he wants, but also because he doesn’t want to add any outside pressure to Andrew’s decision. This is between them – as it should be.

They play Neil’s old team in early November; his former captain and current backliner mark West keeps flicking significant looks between Neil and Andrew on the other side of the court, looking torn between concern and wary fascination. Neil just smiles in response, doing nothing to stop the edge of ferocity in his grin; during the game, he takes particular pleasure in darting around West’s blocks every chance he gets.

They beat the Hawks 8-2. Neil unobtrusively brushes his hand against Andrew’s as they make their way off the court; smiling at the gentle wrist tap he receives in return, he goes out to face the press.

*

Having made his case, Neil is content to let the subject rest; it’s Andrew who brings it up next. They’re sitting on opposite ends of the couch with King fast asleep on both their feet; Neil is half-watching an Exy game on ESPN while Andrew eats ice cream straight from the tub, calmly ignoring Sir’s valiant attempts to get his attention.

“It’s a yes. To coming out.” Unsurprisingly, Andrew doesn’t sound eager or particularly interested, but something in his tone catches at Neil’s attention. It’s not reluctance, exactly, but… trepidation, almost.

Neil stares, the game forgotten in the background, watching the way Andrew doesn’t quite meet his gaze. “I thought you didn’t care,” he eventually says, trying to figure out Andrew’s reasoning without asking him about it explicitly.

Andrew’s eyes flash up to his; Neil sucks in a breath, surprised despite himself by the depth of emotion in his gaze. “I don’t,” Andrew says, and Neil knows it’s true, hears it and believes it, feels the reassurance of it down to his core. There’s a heavy beat of silence before Andrew continues. “But you do.”

Sometimes, Neil can’t quite believe the steady weight of Andrew’s regard for him, doesn’t know how to deal with the essential not-burden of the life they carry together. He does know that effusive thanks are not the way to go right now, though.

“Okay,” he just says, and nudges Andrew’s socked foot with his own. He ignores King’s sleepy sound of disgruntlement in favour of meeting Andrew’s too-sharp gaze.

“Okay,” Andrew echoes, and turns his attention back to his ice cream, finally allowing an ecstatic Sir to climb into his lap.

While Andrew proceeds to eat his way through enough double fudge ice cream to send Kevin into apoplexy, Neil can’t quite make himself stop staring; his eyes rake over Andrew’s profile with something close to awe, catching helplessly on the strong line of his jaw, the unforgiving cut of his cheekbones, the faint stubble concealing even fainter freckles. Winter sunlight bathes Andrew in watery gold, lending his pale hair an almost ethereal glow, and Neil _feels_ , with a fierceness that surprises even himself. He turns back to the television with a smile on his face.

*

The morning of the title game dawns bright and clear, brimming with the promise of spring. Neil finishes his morning run ahead of schedule, paying no attention to the sunrise or the veritable cacophony of birdsong, preoccupied with thoughts of the upcoming final; like the previous year, their opponents are the Portland Wasps, with Kevin as their captain and star striker. Last year the Rebels had lost by the narrowest of margins, and Kevin hadn’t shut up about it for months; this year, Neil is determined to win.

That night, they march onto the court under the thunderous roar of the crowd, the noise more than loud enough to drown out the riotous pounding of his heart. Neil knows Matt and Dan are in the stands to cheer them on, along with Nicky and Erik and Wymack and even Robin, though large crowds still make her uneasy; the other Foxes all sent encouraging messages in the days leading up to the game. Neil is practically vibrating with anticipation, coiled tight and ready to run. Clacking sticks with the Wasps’ starting players, he sees the same feral, barely-contained excitement mirrored in Kevin’s eyes, bright behind the heavy grate of his helmet; down the line, Andrew looks as cool and unruffled as ever.

It’s a hard game from the start, brutal and breathtakingly intense. The Wasps’ defence is near impenetrable, a solid wall for Neil and Ramirez to run themselves ragged against; across the court, Kevin knows how to play against Andrew better than anyone. The pace of the game is dizzying; passes are made at the speed of light and with lethal precision, and every point is hard-won. Neither side is exactly shy about getting physical, either; a particularly heated altercation right before half-time break leaves both Neil and his mark yellow-carded and scowling.

During second half, Andrew starts communicating with his backliners in a way he doesn’t often bother to do. If Neil had any breath left, that sight would be enough to knock it out of him; for all his outward indifference, it seems Andrew is as determined not to lose this game as Neil is himself, if only to annoy Kevin.

After ninety frenzied minutes, the buzzer sounds on an 8-7 score favouring the Rebels, and the stadium erupts into chaos. Neil is immediately swept up in the mob of celebrating teammates swarming the court; in the ensuing pandemonium, he keeps trying to look past them for the only person who really matters to him. Finally spotting him standing alone near his abandoned goal, Neil detaches himself from his rowdy teammates with some difficulty and starts making his way over. On his way across the court, he crosses paths with an exhausted Kevin, who squeezes his shoulder with a curt nod before moving on to join his team.

Skidding to a stop in front of Andrew, Neil drops his stick to the floor and pulls off his helmet. He is a mess; his gear is sticking to his back with sweat, he is still breathing harshly, and the muscles in his arms and legs are heavy and achy with exertion. It doesn’t matter. Andrew looks up at him, as calm and unfazed as always, and the rest of the world abruptly falls away.

“We did it,” Neil says redundantly, and feels the uncontrollable grin stretch his face. Andrew just rolls his eyes in response, but Neil doesn’t miss the near imperceptible softening of his expression, and it takes his breath away. He is giddy with triumph and relief and something else, something far larger than anything he has ever known, and he suddenly knows exactly what he wants to do. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, and waits for the fall-out.

They haven’t talked about coming out in a while; since neither of them wants to make a big deal out of it, they’d resolved to make a low-key announcement when the time was right. This is decidedly _not that_ ; it’s a public setting, not to mention completely spur-of-the-moment and kind of crazy. Neil is expecting Andrew to refuse out of hand, but he doesn’t. Instead, he searches Neil’s face, calmly ignoring the absolute turmoil around them, before he nods and steps closer. When Neil just stares at him, effectively stunned into silence, he takes another step and tilts up his chin. “What are you waiting for, Josten? Written permission?” Andrew asks, an invitation and a challenge at once, and Neil has never backed down from a challenge in his life; he grins when he closes the distance.

As far as kisses go, it’s fairly chaste; they break apart after just a few seconds, though Neil stays close enough to touch, the thrum of his pulse wild and insistent. He’s aware of the ripple of reaction as it travels through the crowd, the shocked hush building into an explosion of sound, the way it happens in stages as the moment is replayed on the massive screens. Through it all, Andrew doesn’t look away from Neil’s face, his gaze unwavering, a rallying point in a roiling sea of chaos. How he can be so calm Neil will never understand; Neil’s mind is reeling with a mix of elation and fear, and he is the one who came up with this.

When Neil finally looks away from Andrew, it’s to see Kevin’s exasperated expression, and the grating familiarity of it somehow halts the anxious spiral of his thoughts. Next to him, Andrew snorts, obviously following the line of his gaze. He touches the back of Neil’s neck before stepping away; the gentle press of his fingers breaks the last of the tension. Neil takes a deep breath, coming back to himself, and exhales.

*

Coach Li pulls him aside as soon as he steps off the court, looking torn between frustration and resignation, a deep frown etched into his brow. “Josten. About that stunt you and Minyard just pulled out there. I’m assuming that wasn’t planned?” At Neil’s nod of confirmation, he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course it wasn’t. Why am I not surprised. Alright. I’m going in first, do some damage control with the sharks, but I can’t promise they won’t ask you about it. Behave, or I’ll bench you for the next five games. I mean it.”

He gives Neil a searching look; after a moment of slightly uncomfortable silence, something in his face unexpectedly softens. “Can’t say a heads-up wouldn’t have been appreciated, but… good for you, Josten,” he says genuinely, and rolls his eyes at Neil’s obvious confusion before clapping him on the shoulder and walking off **.** Neil stares after him until he disappears around the corner.

*

As expected, the post-game press conference is a nightmare. Neil spares a second to be grateful Andrew isn’t there to witness it, though chances are he’s watching the proceedings anyway.

Everyone zeroes in on him as soon as he enters the press room and takes his seat next to Li; Neil has to work to contain his reflexive reaction to the sudden scrutiny. Whatever Coach said to deter people from prying, it clearly didn’t have the intended effect; reporters are shouting over each other trying to catch Neil’s attention, and several cameras flash obnoxiously around him. Neil squints against the blinding light. “This is an interesting new development in your relationship,” a blonde woman in the front row say, faux-sweet, her smile wide and entirely insincere. “When did it happen?”

Neil recognizes this particular reporter all too well, though he’s never cared enough to learn her name; she works for a big gossip magazine, knows next to nothing about Exy, and has taken to hounding him with ridiculous and intrusive questions at every opportunity. Neil leans close to the microphone without breaking eye contact, trying to stave off the ready flare of his temper. “There’s nothing new or interesting about this. And it’s not my fault you guys don’t pay attention.”

Of course, that response triggers an avalanche of increasingly personal follow-up questions; Neil only catches a few of them, but it’s enough to make him never want to answer a question ever again. “Jesus Christ,” Coach Li mutters next to him, with feeling, the fourth or fifth time Neil is asked whether Andrew and him are secretly married; on Neil’s other side, Kevin is staring stoically ahead, either resigned to his fate or possibly sleeping with his eyes open.

Reporters are still aggressively falling over each other to ask their half-formed, irrelevant questions when Neil abruptly decides that he’s had enough. He leans forward in his seat and smiles, sharp and hard-eyed, all predator; there’s no trace of warmth or amusement in his expression. “As I understand it, we’ve just won the championship. Any actual questions about that?” Neil asks, showing more teeth than he usually would; though he keeps his tone deceptively light, he’s gratified to see several people shrinking back in their seats at the obvious spark of danger.

There is a moment of tense silence; everyone present knows Neil’s history, it has been public knowledge since his first year as a Fox, but he doesn’t usually make it this obvious. Though he’d never be mistaken for a media darling, not like Kevin or Jeremy Knox or his former captain West, he’s generally more snarky than explicitly threatening. When Neil glances to his left, Kevin is openly staring, somewhere between startled and reluctantly impressed; on his other side, Coach Li looks like he’s praying for patience.

“Here,” a female reporter in the second row pipes up, waving her hand to get their attention. “Your team was able to keep the Wasps scoreless for significant stretches of time at different points in the game. What do you think was the key to that defensive dominance?” The question is a thinly-veiled attempt to get him to talk about Andrew; when Neil meets the reporter’s eyes, she grins brazenly back at him, not even playing at innocence. Neil knows her; her name is Britta Orvik, and she has been his favourite reporter since he signed with the pros. She’s unapologetically sharp and bluntly honest, and so eerily reminiscent of Allison that he appreciates it even now, despite himself.

“Interesting question to ask a striker,” Neil says pointedly; when Orvik just inclines her head in acknowledgement and doesn’t back down, he continues, “I think we just did what we’ve been doing all season. We’ve got some amazing backliners and the best goalie in the league, and he will never let Kevin win if he can help it.” At his words, a murmur of interest ripples through the crowd; several people start typing furiously. “Minyard did play one of his best games of the season today,” a male reporter says speculatively, then asks, “would you say there’s any hostility, any sense of rivalry, between Minyard and Day?”

Next to him, Kevin suddenly chokes on air. “Oh, you have no idea,” Neil says with a grin, and leaves it at that.

*

When they finally get to their hotel room, it’s hours later. Andrew kicks the door shut behind them, and the lock clicks into place with a satisfying sound; the sudden silence is almost deafening.

The reaction from the public had been instantaneous and overwhelming, simultaneous outpourings of support and bigotry mixing together into a roaring wall of meaningless sound. Neil had switched off his phone within minutes of stepping out of the press room; he still didn’t like using it if he didn’t absolutely have to, plus it wouldn’t stop ringing long enough for him to scroll through his countless messages. Even in the brief moment of staring at his phone before putting it away, several new messages had come through; _u and ur boy okay?_ from Matt, a string of rainbows and crying emojis from Nicky, an eloquent _YOU FUCKER_ from his former teammate Carter, and a ridiculously heartfelt congratulatory message from Jeremy Knox, who probably got his number through Kevin. Neil hadn’t felt up to replying to any of them.

Andrew walks to the bed without speaking and sits down on the end to take off his shoes. Neil looks him over carefully. Andrew doesn’t look upset, his expression blank and the line of his shoulders relaxed, but it’s not always easy to sense his mood, and it isn’t something Neil wants to take risks with. He needs to be sure.

“Do you regret it?” Neil asks, and suddenly finds himself almost afraid of the answer, of somehow having pushed Andrew into something he didn’t want to do. He’s absurdly relieved when Andrew just shrugs and meets his eyes, looking unfazed. “No. Regret is pointless. Do you?”

Neil shakes his head, quick and true. Andrew looks at him for a while, searching his face for something. Finally he nods to himself, a decision. “Come here,” he says, and Neil goes.

As soon as he’s close enough, Andrew pulls him down on the bed with him. He reaches out and brushes his knuckles over the slant of Neil’s cheekbone, tracing the burn marks there with gentle fingers, a ghost of a touch. Neil leans into it and closes his eyes, and Andrew huffs out a breath, half a laugh and half not.

Neil opens his eyes with fondness suffusing his chest, warm and honest like the rising sun. “You were incredible today,” he says softly, because it’s true. “Shut up,” Andrew advises him, but there is no heat in his words; in response, Neil just smiles and shifts closer. He lets his gaze drop to Andrew’s lips and back up again, slow and clear, a signal and an offer. “Yes or no?” he asks, and waits for Andrew to nod and lean in.

They kiss for what feels like hours, or days. Andrew cups Neil’s face in one callused hand, dragging his thumb lightly back and forth along the line of his jaw. He uses his free hand to tap against Neil’s wrist in wordless request; understanding, Neil brings his hands up to tangle in Andrew’s hair, and smiles at the way Andrew yields to his touch.

Neil could so easily get lost in this, drown in the ever-shifting depths of their undeniable connection, but it will never happen; Andrew is always there to catch him when he stumbles, drawing him in and holding him close, grounding and steady and safe. Healing looks different on everyone, and they’ve been keeping each other whole and together for years; it’s the best thing either of them have ever done.

Andrew draws Neil’s bottom lip into his mouth, giving a little stinging bite before letting go, and Neil makes an involuntary noise in the back of his throat. He presses a line of open-mouthed kisses from Andrew’s jaw down to his neck in retaliation, and smiles at the shuddering jump of the pulse against his lips. It’s still electrifying, to be allowed this close; Andrew is a force of nature, honest and unbreakable in his fragility, and Neil knows it, values it, will treasure whatever he can get.

When they break apart to catch their breath, Andrew presses their foreheads together and keeps one hand pressed to the back of Neil’s neck, clearly unwilling to stop touching for even a moment. Neil starts trailing small kisses along the bridge of Andrew’s nose, across his forehead, lingering over the sharp jut of his cheekbones; Andrew exhales slowly, shakily, as always more undone by softness than by anything else. Time slows to a stop, then speeds up again, jolting along unevenly; Neil is utterly swept up in the mesmerising rhythm of the two of them, inexorable as the tide.

“I want to blow you. Yes or no?” Andrew eventually says, his voice low and rough. His pupils are dilated enough to swallow the hazel of his eyes, and there’s a light flush to his face; Neil feels his breath hitch in his throat at the sight of him. Warmth pools low in his belly as he swallows and swallows around nothing, helplessly turned on. Andrew just watches him, calm and impossibly patient; he only moves when Neil nods, mouth numb and heart overflowing.

Neil scrambles up the bed to make room, taking off his shirt as he goes and throwing it halfway across the room; Andrew huffs in amusement at his eagerness, moving between Neil’s legs and dragging his nails lightly down his unprotected sides, making him gasp.

Neil has a feeling Andrew is going to draw this out, and he is proven right; Andrew seems in no particular hurry to get to it as he maps out Neil’s battered skin with careful, gentle hands, kissing every one of his scars with something that on anyone else would have been reverence. Neil suddenly has to blink back tears; it’s not always easy, to be known like this, to be _seen_ , especially for someone like him. It’s been a long time since Neil has been afraid for his life; this is different, though it feels just as inescapable, just as breathtaking. “Andrew,” he whispers, a tremulous plea; he exhales in relief when Andrew understands without words and reaches out to squeeze his hand. It’s more than enough.

Andrew meets his eyes before reaching for his pants at last; Neil nods in reassurance and lifts his hips to help him along. Andrew bends down to suck a bruise into the pale skin of Neil’s thigh, and Neil moans as hot thrills shoot deliciously down his spine. All at once it’s too much and not nearly enough; Neil is abruptly desperate and breathless with it, burning endlessly from within. “I need– where can I touch you?” he chokes out, overwhelmed; his voice sounds hoarse and unfamiliar to his own ears.

“You can touch me,” Andrew replies evenly, “everywhere above the waist.” He sits back and takes off his shirt in one fluid motion, and for a breathless moment Neil can only stare. Andrew is so beautiful; broad and muscular and defined, all hard lines and sharp angles; sturdy and solid where Neil is lean enough to almost be wiry, a runner through and through.

Neil takes his time exploring Andrew’s shoulders and upper back, running thoughtful hands across warm skin and unyielding muscle, allowing himself to get distracted by coarse blond hair and faint sprinklings of freckles. Andrew lets him look his fill, his heated gaze never leaving Neil’s face; when Neil eventually settles with one hand on his shoulder, he easily catches the other, entwining their fingers between one breath and the next.

Andrew bends down to suck another searing kiss into Neil’s skin before shifting to finally take him in his mouth; Neil chokes on a moan, keeping himself still through a supreme effort of will **.** Andrew swallows around him and hums low in his throat, expertly coaxing him to the edge, and Neil gasps breathily, wants to cry with how good it feels; how good Andrew _makes him_ feel, how whole and deserving and real, always. He holds onto Andrew’s hand with everything he has, bursting with need and trembling joy, and lets himself feel. 

Neil gets close almost embarrassingly fast. He sighs brokenly and squeezes Andrew’s hand in wordless warning; Andrew squeezes back but doesn’t pull away, just swirls his tongue insistently and _hums_ , and Neil’s mind blanks spectacularly. He comes with a drawn-out groan, the force of it still somehow taking him by surprise; everything falls perfectly silent, then comes roaring back in an explosion of colour and sound and scent. Neil is falling, falling and breaking wide open, hurtling past stars and galaxies and entire planes of existence; he is suspended in space and time, adrift in vast oceans of warmth and trust, wild and free and dangerous.

Andrew works him through it before pulling off and absently wiping his mouth. He crawls up the bed to lie down next to Neil, breathing a little heavier than usual but otherwise looking as coolly indifferent as ever. Neil turns on his side facing Andrew, curling toward him as he carefully studies his face; Andrew seems calm, relaxed, contemplative but not detached. “Do you want me to…?” Neil offers, and gestures vaguely to Andrew’s pants, where evidence of his arousal is clearly visible.

Andrew just looks at him in silence, quirking an eyebrow, apparently considering it. Eventually he shakes his head, blinking slowly. “Too tired,” he says, and reaches out to trace a familiar line from Neil’s nose to the scarring on his cheek. There’s no hidden message, nothing behind the words but truth and trust; Neil nods in understanding and leans up to brush a soft kiss to Andrew’s forehead, smiling helplessly when Andrew huffs but still leans into his touch.

For a while, there is quiet; Andrew closes his eyes but doesn’t move to put more space between them, seemingly content to fall asleep like this. Neil watches him intently, his mind buzzing and awake; though he is boneless with orgasm, drowsiness dragging at his limbs and weighing down his eyelids, he feels oddly restless. After a while of him trying very hard not to fidget, Andrew sighs in defeat and opens one eye to glare at him. “Just spit it out, Josten, I can hear you thinking from here,” he intones; his words are pointed, but he sounds only mildly exasperated. Neil doesn’t think he’s imagining the undercurrent of concern, either.

“Do you want me to sleep on the couch?” Neil asks, and watches the surprise flit across Andrew’s face before his expression smoothens back out, tries to memorize the way his brow furrows and then relaxes as he turns his head to meet Neil’s gaze. He will never understand how people can believe Andrew is emotionless; the constant, incremental variations in his expression are as obvious to him as they are breathtaking.

“We’ve been sleeping in the same bed for years, Josten; I can handle it,” Andrew replies, and the evenness of his tone is a relief, but Neil needs to be certain.

“I don’t want you to have to _handle_ it,” he says fiercely; he can feel the spark of his temper, but knows himself well enough to recognize that it isn’t really directed at Andrew. “It’s been a pretty intense day, I didn’t want to assume.”

For a drawn-out moment, Andrew just looks back at him, his gaze steady and carefully blank. Anyone else would have missed the brief flash of gratitude in his eyes, the trace of warmth that shows that he appreciates the thought; anyone else probably wouldn’t have even thought to look for it. Neil does, though, and it makes his heart soar to see how far they have come.

“It’s a yes, Neil. Now go the fuck to sleep,” Andrew says at last. He turns on his side, brushing a hand against Neil’s arm in a way that contradicts the gruffness of his voice; it’s the last thing Neil knows before he finally lets himself drift off, feeling warmer and happier than he ever has.

Nothing has changed. They’ll both be here come morning; they’ll face the day together, unashamed and unafraid.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I really hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments are always appreciated! You can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.dustbottle.tumblr.com), come and say hi!


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